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I am one of those people who feels most alive when my hands are plunged wrist-deep in compost-enriched soil. But before you imagine me working my way into a Zen-like state of oneness with all things, let me set the record straight. I see a tomato hornworm burrowing into one of my Brandywines, and I turn into Tony Soprano.

My first album, “Songs of Domestic Bliss,” sold like hotcakes. I can say that because nobody, in 2013, buys hotcakes; who even knows what hotcakes are? In the final tally, gross sales of the album made almost enough to pay for the snacks that I fed to my musician friends--almost, but not quite, because at one point Steve made martinis for the crowd using really expensive gin. (And don’t ask about net album proceeds. There were no net proceeds.)